𝐀 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭

𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 Princess Maella's thirteenth name day was bright and warm. The early sky was awash with cranberry, orange, cream; delicate milky clouds on a pink-yellow canvas.

"Mother and Father might get me a gift to celebrate," Maella mused. "I've expressed my desire for gold silks since the first moon of this year, so perhaps I'll get that. Or a necklace of Valyrian steel, with rubies the size of lemons. I would like that very much. Do you think they will?"

"How would I know?" Jace answered at once. He was seated beside her under the Weirwood tree, barefoot and sun-dazed. "I've heard nothing about gifts."

"Maybe you'll get both." Luke was the youngest of them: a sweet, chubby little boy who was nowhere close to manhood. "That would be lucky."

It would be lucky if I was an only child, Maella thought jokingly. She shifted restlessly on the grass. It was quite a curse to be born the oldest; it carried the expectation that you would be the first to face failure, and forced to become a role model for your siblings.

Maella was the eldest of two boys. Marked in her features was the dragon's blood: eyes of amethyst, cheeks of wine, and hair of the milkiest pearl. She was charming, gentle and shy and as glorious as every Targaryen who came before her. At ten, she became a rider, taking to the sky on the young dragon named Jadetooth. Admired and beloved by all, the court dubbed her "The Belle" for her whimsical beauty.

Jace and Luke did not share the same fortune.

They were the offspring of Laenor Velaryon, and this ought to have made them look the part, but they were plain-featured indeed. Whispers circulated them, with much ado made about their brown curls and button noses. Her mother, Rhaenyra, assured they were true-born—but Maella knew the truth of it. She loved them anyway.

. . . Even with the occasional instances of raised voices and arguing between them.

It was Maella who would separate the boys and fix their clothes afterward. She had remarkable needlework skills. Maella embroidered a towel once, and Alicent said it looked like it was made by the best seamstress in King's Landing. The joy Maella felt at that moment was so profound that she could have died without a single grievance.

"You're getting old, you know," Jace teased. The sun shone brightly upon him, its golden mouth kissing his hair. It looked like he was wearing a crown; Maella wanted to pluck it off his head. "Perhaps we should ask the maesters to make you a walking stick. Or your husband could just carry you around; you're going to have to marry soon anyway."

Maella frowned. Why dwell on such matters? she thought. Marriage? Gross.

There were more important things to focus on. Weaving lilacs into her hair, digging her toes into the grass, or basking in the warm breeze, which carried with it the scent of sweetbriar and jasmine flowers. Her name-day was still on the horizon, and Rhaenyra hadn't broached the subject of marriage yet.